


Very nice!

by Prawnperson



Series: Alternate universes [10]
Category: Don’t Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Adoptive family, Dates, F/M, Family Breakfast, Fluff, Mentions of past child abuse, Post constant au, Scottish Webber, Willowson - Freeform, like very very light mentions, loving family, more specifically Glaswegian, webny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-10-19 01:24:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20648921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prawnperson/pseuds/Prawnperson
Summary: Did you know some quotes hint that Webber has Scottish relatives?





	1. Chapter 1

“Webber?”

Wilson finally gets out. He’s being trying to think of how to phrase this for the past few days. Almost immediately, Webber turns up from his toast and jam, looking expectantly at Wilson.

“Yes?”

“Do you have an accent?”

He can almost see the confusion on Webber’s face, poor child. Wilson takes a sip of his tea, prompting Webber to do the same, even if his does have a good eight spoonfuls of sugar more. Willow seems content to simply watch the scene from the other end of the table, happily digging into her bacon and eggs.

“We...What do you mean?”

Wilson puts his cup down and nervously combs his fingers through his hair.

“Well, I’ve only just recently noticed that you will, occasionally, lapse into a different tone whenever you’re in a certain mood.”

It’s true. Wilson can’t believe he never noticed it whenever they were in the Constant. It’s only really become clear to him the past few weeks, he’s ashamed to admit. He can hear it, beneath the scratchiness of Webber’s voice, the occasional hitch of his breath, the way he rolls certain letters out, and, most notably, his tendency to say certain words as one shortened variation of them both.

“Oh, we’re sorry, Mr Wilson!”

This is the last thing Wilson wanted, that’s for sure. To upset his son so much that he goes back to the official titles he used whenever they first met, despite the fact they’re enjoying breakfast together. Willow shoots Wilson a glare over the brim of her breakfast cup, and Wilson clears his throat.

“You’ve nothing to apologise for, son. It was simply an observation.”

He decides not to force it anymore, but, much to his surprise, Webber pipes up again.

“Our father didn’t think it was proper for us to speak like that...”

“Like what?”

He’s probably already pushing his luck as it is, but Wilson can’t help being curious. Nosy, if he’s honest, but it’s different with Webber. A genuine interest rather than a need to have all his questions answered.

“Well, whenever we used to live in Bearsden, our dad wanted us to speak properly, and, uhm...”

Wilson stops him as soon as he hears the first tinge of upset in his voice.

“Now, Webber, don’t upset yourself.”

Willow finally interjects from across the table, and the mere reminder that another person is there helps Wilson get his thoughts in order.

“Your mum’s right. We just want you to know that you don’t have to put on an act around us. You speak however feels most comfortable for you, alright?”

“...Alright...”

The change is immediately noticeable. Some of the grating strain disappears from Webber’s unusually deep voice. It sounds more childish. Lighter and sweeter. There’s a definite hint of an accent, even with that one word.

“Very nice!”

Willow announces, pushing her chair back from the table as she moves to collect Webber’s plate. As she does so, she presses a quick kiss to the top of his head. Webber giggles in response.

“Can we have more milk, please?”

He holds his glass out patiently. He still isn’t tall enough to reach the top shelf of the fridge yet, and both Willow and Wilson are reluctant to move the beverage down, just because it means Webber will ask them for help so sweetly.

“Of course, dear.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All chapters from here on will have Wendy and Webber as teens unless otherwise stated.

“Knob of butter, white pepper.”

Willow explains, Webber scratching down the information in his recipe book.

“Never leave sprouts on too long. What else does she like, then?”

Webber smiles rather softly and bashfully and, oh, Willow feels like her heart could just burst with pride.

“She, Oh, she likes rosemary, but we think she’ll hae more than enough’ae that wie’ Maxwell.”

Turning back to the pot with a nod, Willow checks on the chicken in the oven. It’s just starting to turn a nice golden colour, just crisping up. The smell seems to summons Wilson as he comes padding down the stairs. 

“How goes it with you two?”

He asks, immediately going to give Willow a soft kiss on the cheek.

“We’re just waiting for Wendy, aren’t we, dear?”

“‘Mhm...”

Webber cups his face in two of his hands, the other two-a rather interesting development since his puberty- shutting his recipe book before he pushes himself back from the table and moves to the door to go to the living room.

“Has he told Wendy we’re expecting yet?”

Wilson instinctively moves his hand to Willow’s hip at the mention, and she giggles lowly.

“I think he sent it to her in his last letter. Besides, she could probably tell by now.”

“Ah, she’s such a nice girl once you get past all the angst. I’m glad he started courting her.”

She can’t help the roll of her eyes. It’s just...

“Courting? What is this, 1805?”

Wilson blushes, turning his head to the side, and Willow can’t resist pressing a light, nipping kiss to his exposed jaw. He squeaks in his typical fashion, not dissimilar to a field mouse, and Willow’s almost certain it would have gone further had it not been for the knock at the door, followed by the sound of Webber skittering down the hall to open it.

“Hello!”

He squeaks, Willow and Wilson both peaking out from the kitchen door. They can see Webber help Wendy inside, taking her cloak-something she insisted was not only warmer but also more appropriate for those in touch with spirits-and nervously pressing a kiss against her cheek.

Wilson squeezes Willow’s hand, and she turns to find him biting down hard on his lip.

“Our little boy’s growing up...”

She bats lightly at his arm and pulls him back into the kitchen, walking over to get her oven mits.

“Oh, dry your eyes, princess. C’mon, help me with this chicken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scottish accents are so hard to write sorry :(


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Webber is a good bf and I try my hardest to establish the energy of this relationship.

Webber is...tender.

There isn’t really any other way to describe him, as much as she hates the sickeningly sweet aura of it. He’s considerate, gentle, funny, all tied up in this unsettling package of height and fur and excess limbs and fangs.

“Do we alarm you?”

It’s always the question he asks before he does anything. Touches her, kisses her, starts a conversation with her. It’s like he’s looking for confirmation to be around her. To exist in her presence. Every time, she gives the same answer.

“As much as I alarm you.”

At present, Webber is stretched out next to her on his bed, scratching something down in messy writing as a record of no discernible merit plays in the background. Wendy doesn’t much care for it, but Webber seems to, and that’s enough for her. The window is open at the far end of the room, as is the door at the base of it. Webber has it held open with a door stop, per Wilson’s insistence. She can hear him and Willow move about downstairs.

“What are you writing?”

She finally pipes, growing impatient with the desire to get up and do anything other than lie here like a corpse.

“A list of were deaths.”

Oh, now that she does like.

Wendy rolls over onto her stomach as well and begins, with some difficulty, reading the list into herself.

“That one was my fault.”

She points to where the word ‘ghost party’ is written, just below ‘volcano staff’ and ‘starvation’. Webber tuts, shaking his head with just enough veracity that the legs at the side of his head twitch and curl. 

“It was naebody’s fault. Just a few unpleasant characters.”

Wendy cups her face in her hands, propped up on her elbows and sighing out. 

“We quite enjoyed it, you know. It was canny fun.”

He probably trying to cheer her up. He usually is, after all. The problem is, it always manages to work.

“You do not have to save my petty feelings, Webber.”

Most people would shiver at the feeling of a broad, clawed hand being pressed firmly against the small of their back, but Wendy doesn’t. She associates it with safety. Comfort. Things that should not at all correlate with the sensation.

“We’re no trying to, and they’re no petty. You worry too much, is your problem.”

He rubs her back as reassuringly as he’s able and, seemingly deciding he’s had enough writing for one day, closes his little book and slides it to the side. Wendy hums as his hand presses a little more insistently against her back, where the other one joins it.

“You need’t calm down a little. Stop bein’ so gothic ‘bout everything.”

“I am not that gothic.”

It’s a hollow protest, and she knows that he knows from the rather amused look in all eight white eyes.

“Sure, alright.”

The one thing that stops Wendy from leaning up to kiss him right then is Willow shouting upstairs to them both that tea’s ready. Webber groans and rolls his eyes, pressing one last time into the curve of her back before helping her off of her stomach.

“Ready to go down and get asked a load of embarrassin’ questions by my da?”

“Ready as I always am.”


	4. Molt

“You should really come to my house sometimes.”

Wendy hangs her cloak up on the peg inside Webber’s door, leaving it slightly cracked open before walking over to where he’s lying on the bed, slightly curled up and miserable looking.

“We aren’t goin’ to go out like this...”

He groans. Wendy sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls at a piece of black fluff on Webber’s stomach. It comes away easily, like downy feathers off a chick, Webber not giving much response beyond a slightly hitched breath. She can see most of the white fur now, only a few of the coal black patches still remaining.

“I know it doesn’t hurt you. You’re just being dramatic.”

It comes out a little more teasing than she’d like, but if Webber notices, he doesn’t comment on it.

“Makes us all sensitive.”

She hums in acknowledgement and shifts slightly closer. His new layer of fur is much thicker and warmer, soft like the powdery snow it’ll surely attempt to keep out. Webber rolls into his back to get a better look at her, grinning whenever he takes in the sight of her red sweater. He likes that sweater. It’s inexplicably soft without looking like it.

Without any warning, Wendy shifts to straddle Webber so that she’s sitting on his stomach. He doesn’t shift any at the weight, she’s considerably smaller than most people and therefore much, much smaller than Webber. She combs her fingers through the great mane of fuzz around his neck, gently tugging out the straggling tufts of black fur. Her fingers seem to sink a little too deep, however, as Webber shivers and screws his eyes shut.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

She moves to pull her hand away, however, much to her alarm, Webber grabs her wrist, unusually soft palms pressing insistently against her skin.

“Feels kind of nice...”

Tentatively, Wendy continues to brush through his mane, Webber’s face comforting to an expression of discomfort and then blatant pain.

“It looks incredibly painful.”

“Mhn.”

The response doesn’t give her much to work off. He’s still gripping her wrist, although his hold has loosened considerably, giving Wendy free reign to lay her palm flat against the small dip where his collar bone must be.

“Do you like this, or is this whole thing some rouse to get me prone and fill me with venom.”

He cracks his eyes open at that, or at least, two of them, and scrunches his face up a little.

“That’s not funny.”

She shrugs her shoulders and scratches her nails gently against his collar. The fur is more like peach fuzz there, but still silky enough for her to tell that it too has molted to the snowy white.

“‘Sides, I’ve not poisoned you a bunch of times before.”

Wendy giggles at that, pulling her hand away from his mane only to move on to the part to the left.

“No, I suppose that’s right.”

The contrast of her blood red nails and his cloud coloured fur is rather endearing, Wendy finds. She can feel the vibrations through his chest as she scratches below his jaw, the place she knows he’s most fond of. The deep thrumming in his chest reverberates through her body, and, strange as it sounds, it feels almost warm.

“When do you think the malt will finish?”

Webber’s mouth opens to speak, but all that comes out of his mouth is shuddering sigh.

“Hm?”

“Tomorrow, maybe. Tonight.”

The moment of calm is broken by a clatter from downstairs. It sounds rather like the breaking of a plate, and is followed by a rather sharp gasp that can only be Willow. There’s rather a great deal of commotion to follow, before Wilson finally shouts up the stairs that Webber needs to come down right this very second.

Wendy turns back to Webber. She can practically hear the cogs turning in his head, before his eyes collectively snap open.

“Is this the baby?”

He asks, propping himself up on his elbows. Wendy nods and climbs back off of Webber and the bed.

“I should say so, yes.”


	5. Chapter 5

It is the wee hours of the morning whenever Webber is allowed into the living room again.

The baby cradled in Willow’s arms is small. Wrapped up in a white blanket, eyes shut, hands curled up into little fists no larger than chestnuts. Little tufts of soft, ebony hair are visible from underneath the hem of the blanket.

“Webber, this is your new brother.”

Wilson’s voice sounds shaky and high, and Webber can make out the exhaustion on his face, mingled with an overwhelmed joy. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, eyes swimming with tears at the mere mention of the baby. Webber creeps hesitantly over to Willow, and peers over her shoulder, into the bunch of blankets.

“We’ve named him Ignatius.”

He was present for most of the talk about baby names, and was even allowed to make his own contributions. It’s funny to think that the conversations about something that once seemed so distant are now a reality. 

“Oh.”

Webber can’t think of anything else to say. The baby appears to be asleep, and Willow doesn’t seem far behind him, very understandably exhausted. Webber could hear the sounds of her. He never heard anything more painful sounding the entire time he was in the Constant. He can only imagine what it must have been like.

“Can...can we touch him?”

Willow nods affirmatively, eyelids heavy with sleep. They can both hear Wilson sobbing very softly from across the room, but it’s become the backing track of the past several hours, and neither of them feel inclined to comment upon it. Webber curls his forefinger in, gently moving it under Iggy’s chin in an attempt to sooth him. He doesn’t respond much beyond opening his eyes for a few moments, wide and brown and questioning, before shutting them again. Webber draws his hand away, some great sweeping wave of protectiveness and pride and happiness and panic all crashing over him at once. 

Webber decides now might be a very good time to collapse into the armchair next to the fire, blinking rapidly, before turning towards Wilson, who is currently occupied with lying on the carpet. 

“We’re a big brother!!”

The legs on the side of his head twitch in excitement, grinning so wide he feels like his cheeks may spilt. Willow laughs in an exhausted tone, and Wilson follows suit, although the scientist’s is still laced with wheezy crying.

“Yes, you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter, but...baby....

**Author's Note:**

> So, my friend and I were talking about Scottish Webber and....it was very nice.


End file.
